


Crystalline Shards In My Throat, I Try To Breathe You In, But I Just Bleed.

by L_Chevalier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drowning, Fluff, Hope you don't have a heart cuz I'm about to break it, Hypothermia, M/M, Near Death Experiences, dumbasses just need to kiss already goddamn it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 20:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Chevalier/pseuds/L_Chevalier
Summary: The end of a case results in a row between Sherlock and John, ending with one of them storming out of the flat.





	Crystalline Shards In My Throat, I Try To Breathe You In, But I Just Bleed.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my beta BoxMoth and my two friends who offered endless support.

John can't even remember how the argument started, but he remembers it being about emotions. Emotions and expression. Something bitter. He remembers being angry and upset to the point of needing to take a walk. He remembers being hurt, not physically, but emotionally, a pain so bone deep that reminded him of the pain packed in a bullet tearing through flesh. In that moment of blind rage (and pain) in which he had stomped out of the flat, he had forgotten his jacket, leaving him freezing as he wandered around in the dead of winter.

 

As much as he wanted to go back and get his jacket, he couldn't, not after that intense row, not after those words that Sherlock spat at him, like acid dripping off his tongue and onto his skin, burning down to the bone.

 

John wanted to forget, he wanted to forgive, but he could feel the words nagging at his brain and itching under his skin. Words like insects, tingling as they crawl. Or perhaps it was the cold.

 

(In a familiar way that reminds him of the thoughts he had after he came back from Afghanistan, reminding him over and over and _over_ again of what he’s been through, what he’s lost.)

 

It’s the row (and those words, and his thoughts) that led him here: on a bridge by the Thames getting mugged.

 

His mugger wasn’t necessarily intimidating, a lanky young man (most likely a teenager) who didn’t really look like he could do much harm with how skinny he is. John had tried to talk him down, tried to show him that he had nothing of value. He didn’t want to get into a fight, especially not with someone he considered a kid. He was confident in his ability to subdue him if they got into a fight, which was inevitably what happened.

 

The kid had lunged at him, but he was prepared for that. The kid had landed a punch to his jaw, but John gave back twice as good as he got with each blow. The fight was short and John was half way through subduing him when the kid managed to get a lucky hit in, leaving him winded just long enough for the kid to continue his attack.

 

Which is how he found himself pressed up against the wall of the bridge, hands around his throat and steadily losing air.

 

At this point his limbs were going numb from the cold, and he didn’t have long before he passed out, so in an act of desperation he the only thing he could.

 

He leaned back as far as he could and pushed both of them into the river.

  


* * *

 

 

The fall had caused the kid to let go in shock, giving John a few seconds to breathe and recover, but the eventual impact knocked all air out of his lungs, rendering that last gulp of breath useless. In a fit of desperation his body had inhaled, filling his lungs with water instead of air. It was a harsh, sharp sensation of daggers buried in his chest, a great weight that dragged him down. He reached out while he sank, desperately trying to grasp at the surface he couldn't reach, falling further and further away from it.

 

John knew he had to get out of the freezing water before he lost complete control of his limbs; that would ensure his death. He could already feel the icy hands of the river grabbing a hold of him, unwilling to let go, desperate to keep him there, keep it company at the bottom.

 

He struggled against the river’s grip, and swam as fast as he could to the surface, the edges of his vision blurring, either due to the water or lack of air, or maybe both. He didn’t feel any relief when he finally breached the surface however, knowing that the likelihood of drowning was still high.

 

The river tangled his legs as he began to work his way to the river bank, begging him to not go. That was when he saw the kid, body limply floating. He cursed and swam his way over, knowing that he couldn’t just let the him die. He was a kid, just a kid.

 

He pulled his arms around his neck and placed the kid’s head on his shoulder, carrying him on his back in an attempt to keep his head above the water. The weight of the kid on his back felt heavier than it should have, like blocks of stone brick pushing him down, making the situation harder, and making his attempt more desperate.

 

He was tired and cold, shivering beyond control and John had never cursed the Thames as much as he had now. The distance feeling less like a swim and more like a freezing, yet numb battle between life and death. And John was losing.

 

_(“Sentiment doesn’t help anyone, John.”_

 

_“And how would you know that,” he snapped back._

 

_“Did sentiment help you when you were shot.” Sherlock responded in what must have been the coldest tone John had ever heard him use._

 

_He stumbled back, feeling as if he’d been shot again.)_

 

He did his best to cross the distance with his heavy, clumsy limbs. The water that felt more like sludge was trying to drag him back, trying to drag him under and drown him, take him. He wasn’t sure if he was getting closer to the edge or not; he thought he was, but now he didn’t know, it felt like he wasn’t. More than once had he thought of just giving up, of letting the sludge- coldness- water take him, of closing his eyes and finally sleeping. But he couldn’t, not with this boy’s life depending on him, and with Sherlock at home in the flat, angry, but there.

 

And somewhere in the back of his mind a voice whispered:

‘ _20 minutes’_ it said.

 

_‘I’ve been in the water too long.’_

 

_‘20 minutes, I have 20 minutes tops.’_

 

_‘I’m losing more and more control of my limbs.’_

 

_‘My 20 minutes are almost up.’_

 

He was sure that his lungs were full of more water than air at this point, it’s like he could feel them freezing. Like he could feel the thin layer of ice on the inner walls of his lungs, along with the crystalline shards of ice in his throat. It was painful to breathe, so, _so painful,_ and he just wanted it to stop ‘ _please, please stop.’_

 

The darkness and the water in his eyes made it hard to tell where he was, most of what he could see was just his own breath. Ghosts of the words he whispered between large, shuddering gulps of air, _“Oh god, please.”_ and _“Sherlock, Sherlock, oh god Sherlock. I’m so sorry.”_ and _“I love you, Sherlock I love you.”_ and _“Oh god, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Please, don’t let me die.”_

 

It took longer than he would of liked to get them both out of the river, his limbs practically useless towards the end; he’s not even sure how he dragged them as far as he could before his limbs finally gave out. He felt numb and cold and he couldn’t tell what hurt and what didn’t. Everything stung but at the same time he couldn't feel anything. He knew he pushed it, he took too long, he took too long and now they were both going to die.

The cold was everywhere, it was in their lungs, their limbs, their brains and in their hearts, they were surrounded by it, they became it. Motionless, barely breathing, there on the bank of the river Thames, completely, utterly, undeniably cold.

  


* * *

 

 

A man walking by saw two bodies, motionless on the bank of the Thames, and called 999.

 

* * *

 

  


Greg Lestrade didn’t expect to have Donovan barge into his office this late at night while he was reviewing case files. He especially didn’t expect her to look at him with something resembling concern and say

 

“It’s Watson, he and another man were found by the edge of the Thames half frozen to death and looking like drowned rats.”

 

He stood, concern and shock running through his body. “When?” he asked, worry dripping from his words.

 

“About fifteen minutes ago, he’s at the hospital right now.”

 

“Right then.” He grabbed his jacket in a great hurry. “I’ll be on my way. Thanks for letting me know.” With that he left his office, and drove to the hospital, (and if he had the sirens on, well, no one had to know.)

 

He was surprised when he entered the hospital and noticed the lack of Sherlock harassing the staff. He half expected it. With his confusion growing by the minute he approached the service desk.

 

“Hello, I'm here for John Watson.”

 

The nurse looked up, “Name?”

 

“Greg Lestrade.”

 

“Only family is allowed to visit at the moment.”

 

“I'm with NSY,” he said as he pulled out his badge.

 

“Alright, we've been trying to contact his emergency contact Sherlock Holmes, but to no success.” The nurse typed away at her computer, “He's in room 308.”

 

“Right, thanks.” As he waited in the lift he sent a quick text to Sherlock.

 

_Sherlock, It’s Lestrade, I need to talk to you asap._

 

No response.

 

He made his way to John’s room before he sent another text.

 

_Seriously Sherlock, I need to tell you something. It’s about John._

 

Greg sat down on the chair next to John’s bed slow, as if he'd disturb John's rest, his fight. He looked at his unconscious friend, phone clasped in his hand.

 

“Hey mate, I know you’d rather it be Sherlock sitting here instead of me, but he’s not answering his phone. Maybe his battery's dead, I’ll try texting him again. I know you’d want him to be here.”

 

_Sherlock, John’s in the hospital._

  


* * *

 

 

It wasn’t until visiting hours were over that he decided to text Mycroft, worried that something might have happened to Sherlock as well.

 

_It’s Lestrade, do you know where Sherlock is?_

 

_I do indeed, detective inspector. May I ask why you want to know? -MH_

 

_John’s in the hospital and I’ve been trying to get a hold of Sherlock, but he won’t respond. I was worried something happened to him too._

 

_I can assure you that my brother is in his flat, unharmed and awake. -MH_

 

_So he’s just been ignoring my texts then, thanks for letting me know._

 

_‘Fine’_ , he thought, if Sherlock wasn’t going to here for John, then he damn well will be.

  


* * *

 

 

It took Sherlock two days before he realized that John was missing. Not because he noticed the lack of his presence in the flat, not because he got up to look for him. No, it was because _Mycroft_ of all people came to the flat to ask him if he was missing something.

 

“What on earth could I possibly be missing?” He picked up his violin, ready to play the most annoying cacophony of notes he possibly could. Best way to drive out nosy big brother.

 

“I’m talking about Doctor Watson, brother mine,” he continued despite Sherlock’s obvious attempts to drive him away. “About two days ago Doctor Watson was hospitalized, and has been there since.”

 

The jerky drag of the bow and the terrible screeching sound emitted from the violin that time was involuntary. A slip of Sherlock’s hand as the information crashed into him like a tidal wave. He swore, for the smallest of moments, that he stopped thinking. John, _his John_ had been hospitalized for the past two days, _and he didn’t notice._

 

_“Why didn’t anybody tell me.”_ He said as he all but threw his violin back into its case before stomping over to the coat rack.

 

“Oh but they have, the hospital had tried contacting you multiple times, you are his emergency contact after all. On top of that Detective Inspector Lestrade had texted you multiple times as well, before he deemed it a lost cause.” He twirled his umbrella before standing. “He’s barely left Doctor Watson’s side this entire time, standing guard in your place. After all, he wants to make sure he wakes up to a friendly face, and not alone.”

 

_Two days,’_ he thought as he struggled to put his coat on, suddenly unable to find the sleeves. _‘They’ve been trying to contact me for two days to let me know that John was hurt, and not once did I check my phone, because I thought it was him.’_

 

Mycroft walked towards the door, “Come along then, Sherlock. I’ll have you dropped off at the hospital.”

 

The entire car ride was spent going over the row they had; it seemed so stupid and insignificant now that he thought about it. He shouldn’t have let it get out of control, and he shouldn’t have said some of the things he did.

 

* * *

 

 

The argument had started when they got back from finishing a case. The door to 221B had barely closed before John turned to him, face consumed by anger.

 

“I can’t believe you did that.”

 

“Did what?”

 

“Played with their emotions!” John stepped closer to him, “They just lost people they loved and you played with their emotions! Like they were just puppets on string! I know it’s for the case Sherlock, but there are limits!”

 

“Oh, so you're _angry_ at me because I didn’t _care_ enough.” He stepped away, distant. It's easier to yell that way. “Is that it?!”

 

“Of course I’m bloody angry at you, you absolute prick!”

 

“Poor little John is upset that _I didn’t care enough!_ ”

 

John’s hands were fists at his sides, most likely trembling with the effort to not punch him.

 

“Do you want to _punch me_ John? Hmm, is that it? Have I made you so mad that you want to _hit me?_ ” He stepped closer, “you’re just like everyone else, _aren’t you John?_ I do or say something you don’t like and suddenly you have the _overwhelming urge to punch me.”_

 

“Shut up.”

 

He stepped even closer, poking the bear just to prove a point. “What’s the matter John? Aren’t you going to hit me?”

 

John stepped back, “No, _shut up.”_

 

He snarled, “Why John? _What’s the matter John.”_

 

“ _Shut up!”_

 

“ _WHY WON’T YOU HIT ME JOHN._ ”

 

He stepped back again, his back against the door, “ _BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT YOU!_ ”

 

“Ah, that John, is where you made a mistake. Caring is not an advantage.”

 

“Stop.”

 

“Sentiment doesn’t help _anyone_ , John.”

 

“ _And how would you know that_ _!_ ” He snapped back.

 

“Did sentiment help you when you were shot.” Sherlock responded.

 

John stumbled back, crashing further against the door, before turning and fleeing out into the street.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. How could he have said that. How could he have turned his razor sharp mind into a weapon to use against John’s heart.

 

Guilt. After two bloody days it decided to turn its monstrous head and remind him of his mistakes.

 

He opened his eyes when he felt the car come to a stop.

 

* * *

 

 

He stomped his way to the reception desk, a whirlwind of guilt and concern.

 

“John Watson,” He snapped at the nurse. _‘Recently single, he broke up with her, has no regrets about it, been working here for the past six years.’_

 

The nurse simply raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes, now let me see John Watson.”

 

He checked the computer, “Ah, the emergency contact. He’s in room 308.”

 

He rushed off before the nurse could say anything else. He doesn't want to hear it.

 

The ride in the lift and the walk down the hall to John’s room felt like the longest moments in his life.

 

He stops in the door to John’s room and feels as if he’s stopped breathing; here on the bed, under piles of blankets lies John. His beautiful, strong John, rendered to a frail and shivering body, looking smaller than he had any right to be.

 

Before he can fully step into the room he’s stopped by Lestrade, a look of anger on his face that he hasn’t seen before. And he's seen Lestrade when he's angry.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Sherlock blinked, “I’m here to see John.” Obviously.

 

“Oh, _really?_ ”

 

“Yes, why else would I be here?”

 

Lestrade’s eye seemed to twitch in anger. “Where were you-” he stepped closer- “two days ago when I first texted you. _When John was first hospitalized!_ ”

 

Sherlock stepped back, feeling as if he’d been physically hit. “I-”

 

“You better have a damned good explanation before you open your mouth.”

 

He looked down, unable to meet Lestrade’s eyes, “I don’t,” he said. “Two days ago John and I had an argument, he left the flat, and in my anger I ignored all calls and texts, assuming they were from him.”

 

Sherlock looks up and finally takes in Lestrade’s appearance. _‘Wrinkled and dirty shirt. Bags under his eyes, coffee stains on his sleeves. He hasn’t left since John got here.’_ Guilt calls at him again.

 

“I should have have been here, Lestrade. I should have been here, _but I wasn’t._ ”

 

Lestrade’s eyes softened, “Look Sherlock-”

 

The guilt he feels is overwhelming, and he can barely get the next words out past all of the cotton that's suddenly found its way into this throat. “No! Don’t try to comfort me when I _don’t deserve it.”_

 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry I got mad at you, I asked Mycroft and he said you were at home, so I thought that you were ignoring my texts.”

 

“As if I would ignore a text about _John being hurt._ ”

 

Lestrade ran a hand down his face and sighed, “I know, I know, I’m sorry. Now get in here and sit next to John.” He moved out of the way, “I’m sure he’d rather have you here than me.”

 

Sherlock moved slowly, afraid that if he took one wrong step John would break. “What happened?”

 

“I’m not really sure, he was found on the bank of the Thames, another person near him, a teenager. They were both soaked to the bone and ice cold when they were found. A passerby had seen them laying there and called 999.”

 

Lestrade shifted, “They had to pump his lungs to get the water out, they gave him warm oxygen, and intravenous fluids as they called it. He still hasn’t woken up either.”

 

Sherlock whispered, “They had to pump warm salt water into his blood because of how dangerously low his body temperature was.”  

 

Sherlock finally stood next to John’s bed, and for the third time that day he felt as if all air had been sucked from his lungs.

 

There on John’s neck where dark purple bruises, like the ugliest watercolor painting he’s ever seen. A painting made with a color he usually would have been able to name, but couldn’t. He _didn’t want to_ put a name to the color staining John’s throat, a color that was proof that some one actively tried to _choke John._ A color so hideous that Sherlock never wanted to see it again, especially not on John.

 

John who was so kind hearted and gentle and strong and who didn’t deserve to have someone put their hands around his throat _and squeeze until he couldn’t breathe._

 

“He’s been choked,” his voice cracked. “Someone tried to _choke him._ ”

 

He collapsed into the chair by the bed, before gently leaning his head on John’s chest.

 

As much as he wanted to go and find who did this he wouldn't, not right now, with John lying in this bed. Later, later he would find whoever dared lay their hands upon John with the intent to cause harm, but not now. Right now he'll provide the support that he was supposed to the past two days.

 

“John, John, _I’m so sorry.”_ He felt his eyes start to water, “I should have been there John, I should have _been there_.” He sat there, sobbing into John’s chest, wonderful, _wonderful_ John whose heart he had stabbed through two days earlier with his terrible, _terrible_ words. John who probably did not want to see Sherlock when he woke, but whose side Sherlock refused to leave.

  


* * *

 

 

It wasn't until eight hours later when John woke up. It was past the visitation hours but Sherlock had refused to leave, terrorising the staff so he could be left in peace, (though until he received a text from Mycroft telling him that he's taken care of them.)

 

He jolted upright when he felt John's breathing pattern change and heard a slurred “Sh'lock?” He hadn't realized he missed that voice.

 

He leaned forward and looked into John's eyes, noticing that they weren't completely focused. “John?”

 

“You ok?”

 

“Am I-” his voice cracked, a broken laugh, “am I ok? John, you're the one lying in a _hospital bed_ , and you're asking _me_ if I'm ok?”

 

John reached his hand out, touching Sherlock’s cheek, “‘s just tha y’look like you’re crying.”

 

It's that moment of pure, selfless concern that causes him to start crying again. “How could you be so _slow?_ Of course I was crying you idiot, you're in the hospital, and I didn't even notice that you were gone for two days until _Mycroft told me._ ”

 

The hand on his cheek just pressed closer.

 

“‘s ok, ‘s ok Sh'lock, everyone makes mistakes.”

 

“Mis- John, John I've caused you _so much pain,_ and yet you act as if it's a small, simple mistake.”

 

“‘s alright Sh'lock, I forgive you. Come ‘er Sh'lock, ‘m cold.”

 

Sherlock looked at John's open, inviting arms and crawled his way onto the hospital bed. He gently, yet thoroughly wrapped himself around John before sobbing into his chest.

 

He felt a hand run through his hair and he couldn't care less if the hospital bed was too small. He wanted to melt into John until their ribs fused together and they became one, he didn't even care if he had to share his brain, as long as John would share his heart.

  


* * *

 

 

John awoke once again to the feeling of warmth and a comfortable pressure on his chest, despite the fact that his insides felt like they've been stabbed by millions of needles.

 

He looked down to see a mop of familiar curls on his chest, and he felt his chest warm at the sight of Sherlock asleep.

 

He attempted to clear his throat before he felt the pain in his neck, he leaned over and pressed the call button, alerting the staff that he was finally awake.

 

The doctor that came in barely glanced at Sherlock in the bed before she continued with a mask of professionalism.

 

“Ah, Doctor Watson, I see you're awake, any pain?”

 

“Yes, my throat and my neck, and my chest.”

 

She hummed before checking his stats. “Yes, that'll happen when you take a tumble into the freezing cold Thames during winter. You swallowed an alarming amount of water and had to have your lungs pumped.”

 

She checked his IV before walking back to the end of his bed and checking his charts. “You were brought in with a rather severe case of hypothermia, you were administered warm oxygen and received intravenous fluids. You were also treated for strangulation, luckily you'll have no lasting damage. Though I wouldn't advise a repeat of the incident.”

 

“Yeah, I don't plan on it.

 

“Good,” she smiled, “you should be clear for release by the end of the day, I'll leave you and your partner be now.”

 

With that she turned and left the room, quietly closed the door behind her.

 

He looked down once again at Sherlock, and ran his fingers through his hair. It didn't take long for Sherlock to wake up soon after.

 

“John,” he said, looking up at him.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“I'd like to apologize, John.”

 

“Sherlock, I already said it was fine”

 

“Fine-” he sat up- “how on earth is it fine that I had forgotten about you for  _two days._  That you have been _hospitalized and I didn't notice_.”

 

“Look Sherlock, I know what I said earlier, and I said it was fine.” He sat up, “I once saw you spend an entire week in your mind palace, only drinking anything on autopilot when I placed it into your hand. So it's not really surprising that you forgot about me leaving for two days.”

 

“There is nothing fine about it! I purposely ignored my phone because I believed it was you! I should have answered when the hospital called me, and when Lestrade texted me! But I didn't,” his eyes water and he makes a sort of choked, wailing sound, “and I spent two days ignorant to the fact that you were in pain.”

 

“Hey, hey Sherlock-” he reached out to grab his hand- “it's _okay_ , people do stupid things when they're angry, things they otherwise wouldn't have done. So it's _okay,_ because you showed up when you found out, you stayed by my side the moment you could and refused to leave, so it's ok. I forgive you.”

 

“You _don’t understand!_ I said things that I shouldn’t have, despicable words meant to hurt you! Because of me you left the flat, and you were attacked! _It’s my fault_.”

 

He pulls Sherlock into a hug, on arm around his waist, and his other hand still holding onto his.

“Look Sherlock, I’m not going to lie, what you said hurt, it hurt so much it felt like I was shot again.”

 

Sherlock sobbed.

 

“But it’s ok, and I forgive you, because I know that people say thing when they’re angry, they’re hurting, so the want to hurt others too. I know you didn’t mean it, so it’s fine, it’s _all fine_. We’re good, ok, we’re good.”

 

“I was so scared John. I was _terrified_ that I had lost you, that you had- that you had _died_ and I wasn't aware.”

 

John held him closer. “It's ok, it's ok, I was terrified too. But only part of it was due to the fact that I might die. Most of it was at the thought of having to leave you behind, but I'm still here, and I don't plan on going anywhere.”

 

Sherlock pressed his face into his shoulder and whispered, “Imagine that; it had taken the fear of you dying for me to realize that I was in love with you.”

 

John froze, his heart suddenly in his throat, “You- you really love me?”

 

He nodded before he started to pull away, “So strongly that it scares me.”

 

He pulled Sherlock back to him, “I love you too, I really, truly do.”

 

“John Watson, you are not the type of man to lie about something so important, so I accept with the utmost trust that you love me.”

 

“I do love you, to the point where my heart might burst.” He pulled back before kissing Sherlock’s cheek. “Now let's stop crying huh? This is supposed to be a happy moment.”

 

Sherlock snorted before he leaned back. He stared at John for a couple of seconds before he brought his free hand up and placed it on John's face. He leaned in the tiniest fraction, as if he wanted to kiss him but still wasn't sure if it was allowed or not, so John made the decision for him. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock.

 

The kiss wasn't one full of heat and desperation, instead it was soft and gentle, full of tenderness that spoke of the bone deep ache that they both held.  

 

They pulled away slowly and opened their eyes.

 

“This means that we're dating, does it not?”

 

“Yes, I should hope so.”

 

“Excellent, because I prefer the term “partners” over the vulgar immatureness of “boyfriends.’”

 

John laughed, “If that's what you want us to refer to ourselves as then sure, I don't mind.”

 

“Perfect. Let's go home John, my bed is bigger and much more comfortable than this one.”

 

“Yeah,” he said as he rested his forehead against Sherlock's, “Home sounds perfect.”

 


End file.
